Left, But Not Forgotten
by taylor allie
Summary: She cursed herself under her breath. She sounded desperate again, saying his name. Zoey's POV. Eventual Francis/Zoey, but with a little Francis/Rochelle and Ellis/Zoey in-between. Hey, maybe even a bit of Nick/Ro, too!
1. Gunshots at Night

**A/N:** So this is my first story in a long time, and it just so happens to be my very first Left 4 Dead story! Congratulations me! But, anyway, I've been tossing the idea about in my head for quite some time. I'm also in the middle of writing a Draco/Hermione one-shot, but that's something entirely different. What I'd like to do with this story, however, is make it Francis/Zoey, ultimately. That means that they will probably have some problems along the way, but hey, what couple doesn't? This story will be very gory, thus the M rating, but don't worry—we'll have some nice, juicy bits in there, as well. :] Well, without further ado, onto the disclaimer and the first chapter.

**DISCLAIMER:** I do not own ANYTHING related to Left 4 Dead. That would all belong to Valve: the characters, the zombies, and the weapon selection— that's all them. I do, however, on this story. This plotline is mine.

The soft, mournful cries of a Witch made Zoey sit up, coming out of her sleep. The brunette cursed under her breath, urging her heart to stop pounding. Sometimes she had no clue why that crying bothered her so much. She rolled her neck, feeling the pops and twitches of pain that followed. She sighed, scooting back closer to the corner she had set herself up in. Zoey remembered the first time she had heard the Witch's cry; she had been at college. There was a girl down the hall from her that had become a Witch, though her bedroom door was locked the night she had turned. For three days, Zoey was held up in her own room—room number 406 on the fourth floor of the Beckett Dorms—and listened to that sad crying. She had wondered what Megan was crying about, though couldn't bring herself to actually leave to find out. Though now, she believes the Witch's crying to be a sort of evolutionary gain that came with the Infection. She had even once put her entire group at risk, believing the crying to be another Survivor in need. That was in the beginning, though, when she was naïve enough to want to risk her life to save someone not in her group of four. Even back at school, all Zoey wanted to do was help the people she could during this confusing time. She would occasionally peak outside of her door and could see nothing but corpses and blood. She chuckled to herself, thinking back on how terrified she had been and how she kept repeating, "I knew it! I fucking knew this would happen! Z Day _is_ real!" How long had it had been since that time, she wondered? It couldn't have been anything less than seven months. It felt like years away in her memories, though she knew that time had been exaggerated since that first day. Day One of Z Day was the longest day on the planet. That was a day that seemed to have lasted forty hours, though was a normal twenty-four hour day. As the Witch's cry hushed—she assumed the bitch was walking around—she noticed the raindrops pattering on the safe house. Zoey sighed, and brought her knees to her chin, resting it gently as she listened to the men breathing evenly. It had rained a lot New Haven, too, where she went to school. Her parents were so excited that their little girl was going to Yale—ha! Yale seemed like a waste of money, now. If they had only known that Z Day would happen before she could even finish her first year, they would have let her just go to Cornell University in Mount Vernon, Iowa, near their home in Cedar Rapids. Instead, they had to shell out the nearly $50,000 for her to go for almost one semester.

The eighteen-year-old girl grabbed her pistol from underneath her pillow and stood from her make-shift mattress. She and Bill were always given the softest things to sleep on, at the insistence of Francis and Louis. They had their own little pairs in their group of four: Louis and Bill, and Zoey and Francis. She carefully stepped over the sleeping form of Louis. She smiled at him as she passed overhead. Louis looked to Bill as the father he never had, coming from a home with a single mother and a check from a man he never knew. He had been a Junior Systems Analyst at some company—Zoey kept forgetting where—that he hated. He was twenty-eight, and he has never been married. Zoey knew, from the moment she had met him in Philly, that she liked him. He was a good-natured man, and very optimistic. She appreciated his optimism most of the time and was always one to help him, should he need it. Zoey watched her feet, careful not to disturb Bill. Bill was her father-figure, as well. He was her friend Jessica's grandfather, after having met him several times. He lived in New Haven and Jessica would drag her over to his house so they could listen to his stories and just hang out. Though, when Jessica became an Infected, Bill had to do her in, and thus had taken to Zoey as a surrogate granddaughter, of sorts. Zoey didn't mind, as he was the closest thing to a family she had. She walked to the door and stood at its bars, watching them mull around and groan. Her eyes may have been focusing on the world outside, but her mind was focused on the man sitting in the corner closest to the door, his head tilted forward in sleep. Francis—she had a terrible crush on him the moment she saw him. She and Bill had been travelling towards Philadelphia for a few days when they ran into Francis. He had run into Bill before, the two of them arguing at a bar in New Haven a few days before the Infection spread. Francis looked Zoey up and down before smirking with the comment, "Who's the kid, old-timer?" At this, Bill was furious, though Zoey couldn't remember what all was said. She could only remember his stony gray eyes never leaving hers the entire argument. She knew it had something to do with, "You stay away from her!" and "She's got a mind of her own, I'm sure." Now she watched him sleep, his broad shoulders moving in time with his deep breathing. A blush fell over her cheeks as she turned away, watching for any zombies—or Survivors—that may get too close.

Zoey huffed in frustration, remembering the few times they had actually _trusted_ other people. It never ended well, that was for sure. The random person would try to do everything to convince them that they were not infected; however that was never the truth. They would soon turn a few hours, once it was just a few minutes into talking to them, and attack them. She had lost all trust in others; her three guys were all that mattered now. A common Infected seemed to notice her, probably smelling the sweat beading on her forehead, and called out, running towards the door. Zoey smirked and popped the dead asshole in the head. A few more Infected, who had heard his cries and the gunshot, ran over and they met their similar fates. Zoey breathed out, kicking the shells on the ground out of her way, as she would hate to slip on them by accident. Her eyes returning to the door, a hand on her shoulder caused her to jump, her finger flying off the trigger as she pulled away. That gruff laughter only gave away who it could be. Zoey smiled as the orange and yellow end of Bill's lit cigar met her eyes before Bill's did. She put a hand on her chest and willed her heart to slow down, again.

"Bill, Jesus, you scared the shit out of me!" Zoey laughed a little as Bill smiled at her, the flaming end of his cigar growing brighter for a few seconds, followed by the familiar smoke that bellowed around him. Bill shrugged and took off his hat, fanning himself. "Sorry Zo, I really didn't mean it. I just wanted to know if you'd like me to take over for a few? I'd hate to have you standing at the door all night. You need your rest, kid," Bill picked up his assault rifle from the table beside him, always at the ready. Zoey smiled at the Vietnam veteran, knowing he thoroughly enjoyed picking off his newest enemy. Bill hadn't seen a war in decades, so this war against the Infected was appreciated by him, at least.

"Sure, Bill, if you'd like. In all honesty, though, I haven't been standing here for long. I just woke up about ten minutes ago." Zoey spoke between gunshots as Bill did his best fighting off the Infected. This was what Bill was born to do, defend those who needed it. The elderly man spun around and faced a crooked grin at his younger companion. "It's fine, Zoey, go sleep—or at least rest. You might not get a lot of sleeping done with Helen working her magic."

Zoey had to stifle a laugh at Bill's comment. She loved it when he gave his new guns a name. Every gun he picked up had a name, an old Army tradition is what she credited it to; Helen, Diana, Katie, Susie, and Laura had all been memorable weapons in his arsenal at one time or another. "Yes, I suppose you're right. Thank you, Bill." The young girl smiled at her pseudo-grandfather and walked back to her thin mattress, collapsing onto it like it was a California King with a pillow-top. Gently placing her pistol back under her pillow, slightly jumping at the firing of more assault rifle rounds, Zoey heaved a sigh and lay back, resting her head on her jacket. Closing her eyes, Zoey smiled at nothing, just enjoying the relaxation of lying down.

"Sleep tight, Zoey," called Louis from a few feet away. "Yeah, go to sleep, kiddo."

Zoey's eyes opened at that voice as her heart swelled into her throat. She felt her face blush in the dark, and was thankful that he couldn't see across the room with the lack of light. "Thanks Louis, you too, Francis."

She cursed herself under her breath, again. She sounded desperate again, saying his name. She knew how she had been in the beginning and felt shameful of it. She would follow him around like a new puppy, tight at his heels. She would laugh at nearly everything he said, and would defend him when Louis and Bill became fed up with his smart-ass mouth. Francis would often make jokes about her far-too-obvious crush on him, and she would usually meet his comments with seething, defensive comments of her own. She didn't want him to know—hell, she would be mortified if he ever acted any differently toward her. However, it was never quite a secret that the eighteen-year-old girl had such an intense infatuation over the man ten years her senior. The day that Louis joined him, he had asked Francis if Zoey was his little sister or something, to which he replied with a flat, "No." Following his answer, Louis asked Francis if Zoey was his girlfriend, judging by how close she followed him and her obvious preference of his company. Francis had laughed at Louis' question, causing him to ask why he was laughing. Zoey jumped all over Louis for asking Francis if she was his girlfriend, getting quite frustrated at even the very thought of it. After the teenager's mini-rant, Francis quietly responded to Louis' previous question, "That, sir, would be why I laughed."

Shaking her head, Zoey rolled over on her right side, facing the cool stone wall. She hated having a weakness, and Francis was definitely a weakness. Something she had learned from watching all those horror movies was that weakness quickly leads to death. Like fuck she would let Francis kill her.


	2. Moving On

The hot Texas weather beat down into the metal safe house, heating up the inside to uncomfortable temperatures. Zoey felt the slick layer of sweat covering every inch of her body, making her clothes very uncomfortable on her. _'Great, I just washed these two weeks ago. Well, congratulations, Zoe, you're sentenced to uncomfortable clothes for a while,_' the brunette huffed, mentally. Furrowing her eyebrows, Zoey turned over, willing her body to go back to sleep.

Sleeping and dreaming were the only escapes in this hell on earth. The only way to get away from the hordes, in the end, was sleep. While sleeping, Zoey was off in a better world, one without the groans and screams of the undead, of all the blood and stomach-lurching smells and bodily fluids covering what seemed like every inch of every surface. In fact, sometimes Zoey was convinced that she had died that first night and now her soul was in Purgatory, having chosen many days of video game playing over church when she reached her teen years. To any Survivor in this Purgatory, sleep was crucial. If one was to go without sleep, one would put themselves at risk. She didn't care if the world as she knew it was gone, didn't care if that wonderful cool rain was just in her dream, and didn't care that she missed Bill so much that she couldn't go one night's sleep without him in her dreams—right now, she just wanted to sleep.

As she rolled over, however, the young girl found her eyes lined directly with the early morning sunlight flooding the safe house unabashedly. A scowl left her pink lips as she sat up in frustration, tired of this Texas weather far more than her patience allowed. After their group of three had left Louisiana behind, they got word that places in high altitudes—places like Utah and Colorado—were nearly quarantined. Zoey still winced when she thought about Louisiana. She now had a disdain for that place that had nothing to do with the actual land. That was where they lost Bill; he had sacrificed his life for them and they had only belittled and harassed him the entire way to that damn bridge!

What Zoey wouldn't give to just go back and do it all over again … Bill didn't deserve to die for them. And then there was the other group and all that drama. A hiss came over Zoey as she shifted up from her position on the floor. She would attribute the hiss to her wrist, which had been bothering her since she slipped heading up the stairwell of the building they were in. That was a nasty wound that had been refusing to heal completely. However, this hiss was double-edged as she was remembering the intense flirting Francis had with Rochelle.

It had burned her heart and made a hole in her stomach that ached and swelled when she remembered how the older man would look at the stranger. Rochelle was very nice, sociable, and was sassy enough to catch Francis' attention. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that the woman was pretty. Zoey couldn't help but feel that bitter rage that only comes with jealousy. She had nothing against Rochelle, personally, but she could see why Francis liked her and that bothered the young brunette. She had even taken to paying that sweet Ellis a little more attention than average to see if she could get a rise out of her biker. Unfortunately, she only received teasing from Francis and Louis about her "redneck boyfriend."

As sweet and kind as Ellis was, he just wasn't her type. Then again, perhaps it was his distinct Southern dialect that turned her away from him. As much as she hated to admit it, she found his accent annoying. It just screamed, "_My mommy and sister and aunt and grandma are all the same person! Herpaderp!_" While she didn't want to consider herself someone who just blindly followed stereotypes, it was hard not to in Ellis' case. He was a young Southern guy, a mechanic, and had the dialect of Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer. Though, one stereotype did hold true to Ellis: he was a Southern gentleman. He treated her with nothing but respect, as she returned it to him, but she just couldn't picture it, not after meeting Francis. There was no one who could compare to him. Everything about him just screamed male: he was tall, muscular, crass, brave, and sometimes a little too stubborn. A breathy sigh escaped her throat as Zoey pushed herself up with her knees, again furrowing her brows at the uncomfortable moisture covering her entire body.

Sweat was gross—hands down.

Zoey looked at the far corner of the shelter, seeing Louis lying with his back to her. He was lucky to sleep through the discomfort. Perhaps she had been a bit too pampered as a child to sleep uncomfortably. Immediately, Zoey's green eyes searched for Francis, scanning the quiet room. A chuckle caught in the girl's throat as she realised that Francis was using a busted television as a pillow and had taken refuge under the table. A flashback of old school policies on what to do during a tornado flooded back to Zoey. She had always been confused that the same process for a tornado—take refuge under a desk and cover your head—was the same process for an intruder in the building. How on God's green earth would the same process apply to both and still be relevant?

Shaking her thoughts, Zoey let her lean back fall against a table, wincing at the slight 'thud' that sounded in the room and hoped she hadn't disturbed her companions. The guys' lack of movement settled her worries and she leaned her head towards her left side, studying the biker across the room. What was it that caught Zoey's attentions and held them steadfast to her heart? Chewing on her upper lip, Zoey considered just who the biker was and how she had met him.

That day in Philly seemed like a decade ago and she was still mortified over how she had behaved since then. What had come over her? She was a Yale student, after all; aren't Yale students supposed to be smart? Embarrassment washed over the teenager with a small tinge of shame. She couldn't even begin to deny that she didn't take back her actions before and only wished that those days would be long behind them. Even as she sat and thought about Francis, it was still hard not to think of Bill.

It had been almost two weeks since Bill's death and Zoey wanted to change. She had to be strong for her fallen veteran. A rip had formed in Zoey's heart from the moment she saw Bill push that generator's button and then lost him in a sea of Infected. A large part of her had died with Bill that day and Zoey wasn't sure if she would ever feel the same without him there with her. He had been like her grandfather and she took his loss hard. Not even a couple of funny jokes with Francis could cheer her up.

Zoey rolled her eyes at her own thoughts. She was really pathetic sometimes, and she often found herself wondering how someone so smart could be so obliviously stupid. She was always so quick to latch onto Francis in the past when she should have kept her wits about her. She would make sure she stuck by him instead of defending herself. She had grown too attached for her own safety, and his.

It was time to put her big girl panties on.

Pushing herself off the table, almost as if she were freeing herself from restraints, Zoey huffed in confidence. She would become more than the average Zoey and show these two that she could handle herself, especially now that Bill was gone. She wasn't going to stay the moping teenager she had been the last week and she was going to start kicking some zombie ass! The brunette pulled out her clip and checked how many rounds she had, smirking to herself; she replaced her clip and took a deep breath. Her body turned to the metal door and she saw a couple of Infected mulling about.

Pssh—easy targets.

Zoey took aim, very carefully, at the Infected closest to the safe house door. It used to be a woman, she could tell, but most of the thing's black hair had fallen out, leaving only patches of a dirty matted mane. The woman's face was sliced open on the left hand side and Zoey wondered whether she obtained that before Z-Day or after she had been turned. A frown fell on Zoey's pink lips, as it did when her thoughts drifted to the world before the infection. She thought of all those poor souls who hadn't seen it coming and weren't immune to the airborne infection.

_Bang_.

However, thoughts like that were dangerous in Purgatory. Zoey's shot rang through the woman's head, sending the infected brain matter flying on the other side of her. The other Infected, another woman, took notice of the shot and ran for the door towards Zoey. A smirk fell on the teenager's lips as she pulled the trigger. The woman fell dead just seven feet shy of the door. Zoey pulled her gun to her lips and blew the invisible smoke from the barrel, feeling like Dirty Harry.

"Damn, am I good or am I good? I think I'm pretty damn good!" Zoey's ecstatic voice rang like bells in the safe house, suddenly giving two-shits less about the other occupants.

A groan from behind her caused the teenager to turn her head to the right. She brushed hair from her eyes as she saw Louis stagger up to the floor, audibly wincing as he put weight on his still-tender right leg. His left leg had healed faster, having been spared less of a beating than his right leg. Zoey frowned a bit at his pain and made her way towards him.

"You alright Louis?" Zoey softened her tone as she held out her arm to him, allowing him to stabilize himself using her arm as support.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm alright, Zoe. How are you holding up?"

Zoey smiled inwardly; that was Louis, always so pleasant and concerned with others. He was a good guy and she couldn't begin to think how she would handle herself if she lost him, too. "I guess I'm as okay as I'll ever get without a shower and a safe place to live. Still can't sleep, though," Zoey spoke as if in afterthought, not allowing her mind to take her back to her Bill-centered nightmares. She could only imagine the pain he went through for them.

"I know how you feel. I miss him, too," Louis' eyes sparkled with empathy for the younger girl. He knew she was trying to hold up as best as she could without Bill. It was hard on all of them. Bill had not only been one hell of a shot, but had been a very valuable team member in all respects. He was always there to help and never one to turn anybody away that needed help in their group of four. He was definitely the father figure of the group.

Now they were a group of three and nothing felt right.

Zoey turned away from Louis and winced at the stinging pain in her throat, the tell-tale first sign of a long cry. Shaking Bill from her thoughts and clearing her throat, Zoey walked back to the door and held her pistol in place, spotting a few more stragglers.

_Bang, bang bang, bang_.

'_That's it, Zoe, just shoot your hurt away,'_ Louis thought, briefly, shaking his head and turning his attention to reloading his guns. Zoey ignored the two in the safe house behind her, wanting to forget everything that had happened in the last two weeks. She was going to make damn sure that she kept her group safe from harm. They were almost home free and it would only be a matter of time before they got to the mountains.

The Keys had once been their plan of action. However, not two days after Bill sacrificed himself they received a radio transmission stating that islands were near-inhabitable. Nearly all of the people who had taken to the islands at the beginning of the Green Plague had become infected and those who were listening were warned not to be stuck on an island at any cost. There was no way of making sure there were absolutely no infected on any one of the islands and the risk seemed too great a cost now that Bill was gone. It had broken Zoey's heart to abandon the plan that Bill had given his life for, but what would become of his sacrifice when they were all dead? He would have died in vain, and Zoey couldn't let that happen.

After the howling of Infected had ceased, Zoey took a step back from the metal door and wiped the beading sweat from her forehead that dared to drip into her green eyes. What she wouldn't give for a cold drink right about now. At that moment, hands grabbed Zoey's sides and a hushed voice proclaimed, "Boo," right into her ear. Her gun went off, firing a round into the ceiling after being caught off-guard. Now all the teenager could hear between the blood pumping in her ears and her heart beat thudding against her chest was Francis' gruff laughter. Putting her pistol in the back of her jeans, Zoey pushed past Francis much harder than she intended and started reloading her pistol at the table.

Francis' laughter died down at Zoey's silence, causing tension and confusion to thickly coat the air. His thick eyebrows furrowed at Zoey's behavior. She had never acted like this before. "Zoe, what's yer problem? It was justa joke! Lighten up, ya stiff!" Unfortunately for Francis, Zoey said nothing. She merely continued cleaning her pistol with a dirty rag she'd found on the floor. She was determined to win this battle with him. Francis' arms crossed over his chest as he watched her with a hardened gaze.

"I hate your silence."

Zoey rolled her eyes at his proclamation while Louis chuckled from her right side. _'Surprise, surprise,'_ thought the young brunette. Zoey knew that Francis hated everything, except himself, vests, lasagna, and Rochelle. Sometimes he would proclaimed he "liked" something, but it would be short-lived and usually brought on by a bump on the head.

"Oh, really? I had no idea you hated anything, Francis," the bite in Zoey's tone was audible by anyone with proper hearing. A heavy sigh followed her final response as Francis took a few steps toward her.

"Zoey, I was just trying to lighten up your mood. You've been so angry since … well, you know. I just wanted to make you feel better. You haven't laughed at any of my jokes in nearly two weeks!" Francis watched the girl closely, looking for some kind of hint that she was about to smile at him and call him a wuss or something. Something that would let him know the old Zoey was still in there somewhere.

It would be a lie to say that Francis never found Zoey attractive at all. Hell, he'd practically jumped all over her the day they met, had it not been for Grandfather Bill to stop him and demand he treat Zoey with respect. She was a young thing, finding out she was only eighteen sometime soon after meeting had only sweetened the deal. She had the prettiest green eyes and brown hair that Francis had noticed always looked soft. After they had all gotten to know each other over time, he had found out she was still a virgin. To say that Francis' body hadn't responded to that little nugget of information would be considered one of the greatest lies in history.

It would also be a lie to say that Francis had never noticed Zoey's little infatuation with him. He had felt pretty big-headed at first, having this eighteen-year-old girl fawning over him all the time, but then he just felt wrong for doing so. She was naïve and very malleable; she would probably have done anything he asked, or told, her to do within reason. So he backed off, like he'd promised the old man, and just humored the young girl every now and then. Now that promise seemed like a contract since they had lost the old guy a couple of weeks ago.

But Rochelle—oh, Rochelle was a different story.

To forget his promise to Bill and jump all over the kid would leave Francis feeling guilty. He hated feeling guilty. So the day he met Rochelle had been a day that he could release all his sexual tension. She was pretty, sassy, and hated stuff too. It seemed like the perfect getaway. Even though she had said she hated his vest, he could forgive her for it. Truth be told, her vest-hating had pissed him off a little more than he expected.

The only problem with Rochelle was that tight-wad con-man asshole that was travelling with her group. It was obvious that Nick had a thing for her just by his greeting. Did that mean he had to be a dick to everyone? No, it fucking didn't, but yet he was still a little douche-nozzle to Francis, Louis, hell, even Zoey. That and it was obvious to Francis that Ro had a thing for Nick, too, so that had put a damper on his hopes of getting closer to her. Besides, they never even came into physical contact, so it had been purely flirtatious anyway.

But if he could have gotten his hands on her, there's no telling what could have gone down.

As Francis watched Zoey checking her sights, he thought of that mechanic boy—Elroy? Was that his name? Ell-something; he had been a good kid. He was in his twenties and was smitten with Zoey from the get-go. He and Louis had teased Zoey about Ell-something's infatuation with her for the next couple of days after meeting the Southern group of four. She hadn't been amused with the teasing, but had been very nice to him. One thing that had hit a nerve with Francis was how sweet to Ell-something Zoey had been before they left in that piece of shit car they found. She had said goodbye to Ell-something a couple of times, even lamenting on whether their group should have gone with them.

Francis could picture it now, being shoved in the back seat between Louis, Ro, and Nick while Ell-something drove with Zoey at his side and Coach next to them. He'd have to deal with Louis' good feelings about where they were going while putting up with Nick's insults all the while trying to ignore Ell-something's arm around Zoey's shoulders and her giggles between her smiling at that punk redneck kid.

Turning his attention to his shotgun, he shook the white-hot jealousy that bubbled in his gut at his little vision of what-if. Zoey had liked that kid, he knew it. He just hoped that they wouldn't run into the group any time soon. Large groups got out of hand too quickly, anyway, so it was for the best. Grabbing a newspaper from the ground, Francis wiped the blood and sticky bodily fluids—was that brain matter or just chunks of insides?—from the barrel and butt of his gun.

"Alright, ladies, when do you want to head out? It looks like it's around eight in the morning," Francis broke the silence of the room, still not looking at anyone but feeling eyes on him now. Zoey shoved her pistol back into her jeans, slung her SCAR over her shoulder, and grabbed her machete. Louis put his Glock in the shoulder holster he'd swiped from a cop's body, slung his sub-machine gun over his shoulder, and grabbed his baseball bat. Francis readied his Magnum in his leg-holster, slung his auto shotgun over his shoulder, and grabbed his trusty axe with a smirk. "I'll take that as a 'now' then," said the biker as he nodded to his companions, who nodded back at him.

"Alright, let's kill some Infected bitches, then!"

With his crude battle-cry, Francis took the barricade on the door down and kicked it open.


End file.
